


Epilogue. So we'll live...

by dioscureantwins



Series: Out of the Heart and Into the Darkness [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, John isn't afraid to tell the most dangerous man in London he needs a therapist, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Rape Aftermath, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1860816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Good evening, constable, my name is Mycroft Holmes. I realise the name means nothing to you now, but it will remain with you for the rest of your life. Whether that will be in a pleasant or a less agreeable capacity depends on the speed with which you hand me your phone.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. So we'll live...

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: many, many thanks to the fantastic frozen_delight. I can’t thank her enough for her help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course
> 
> Author’s note: This is the epilogue of my series Out of the Heart and into the Darkness. I’m afraid you’ll have the first part of the series first for this fic to make sense. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading

As soon as they’ve reached the rim of the crater Sherlock collapses. One second he’s standing upright – breath wheezing a little but up on his own two feet – and the next second his legs buckle, the joints snapping with the loud crack of a snapped branch. Luckily, Mycroft has been on the lookout for this occurrence since the start of their journey – and wasn’t that aeons ago now? How Sherlock has even made it this far is beyond him. Mycroft’s left hand lets go of the improvised stretcher he’s been dragging behind him to aid his right hand in catching his brother. Immediately John is at their side. He unrolls the stretcher and helps Mycroft to lower Sherlock onto it.

“You did it, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, drawing his coat tighter around Sherlock, who has started to shiver violently. “You walked out. Now you must rest and let me and John take care of you.”

“Yes,” John adds his voice. “For once I do agree with Mycroft. Better make the most of it, Sherlock.”

There’s no answer; Sherlock appears to be beyond paying attention to either of them. His eyelids have fluttered shut and he’s concerning himself solely with drawing air into his lungs. Mycroft arranges John’s jacket over his legs.

“The boathouse is that way,” John says, tilting his head in the direction of a spot behind Mycroft’s back. “Shall we?”

“No, wait.” Mycroft silences John with a gesture of his hand. His ears have detected a sound in the distance. He manages to identify it as it draws nearer, the screeching of different sirens – police and ambulance – clamouring together in an impromptu concert for the celebration of disaster.

Now John hears it too. His face lights up. “There’s the cavalry,” he says, his voice flooded with relief.

“Yes... or…” The idea that the fast approaching vehicles are in fact a part of Moran’s estate, summoned by their master’s demise to wreak havoc and revenge, flares up in Mycroft’s mind. He wishes to dismiss it as ludicrous, but reminds himself that Moran has been running a state within the state. The man has managed to hide Sherlock right here in the heartland of Mycroft’s realm, he has managed to control Mycroft’s cameras for the few hours it took to abduct Sherlock and smuggle him out of London. To suppose him controlling the local emergency services can’t be that farfetched a notion. Better safe than sorry. It may be the maxim of the weak, but, considering the circumstances and the rather dilapidated picture he must present to the world, barefoot and without so much as a jacket, he rather heeds the advice. 

The last light of the moon reveals a convenient clump of trees and undergrowth to their right, apparently unscathed by the explosion. 

“I suggest we make ourselves scarce first. Find out whether they’re friend or foe. That copse will serve us well enough.”

“But… they’re the police,” John protests.

“And Moran was in the army. Please, John, indulge me.” Mycroft kneels down and grasps the ends of the paddles near Sherlock’s head. “I can’t have Sherlock falling into the wrong hands again.”

“All right. But you’re totally paranoid, Mycroft.”

“You can’t imagine how dearly I hope you’re right.”

Once they’ve lifted Sherlock they break into an awkward run towards the shelter of the trees. The tug of the weight of the stretcher on Mycroft’s arms is acutely uncomfortable. Behind him Sherlock groans, the stretcher’s jolting must be hurting him.

“It’s fine, Sherlock, it’s all fine,” John pants. They crash into the dark of the scrub. A thorny twig – bramble? – snatches at Mycroft’s right foot. His feet are already bleeding from countless small cuts and gashes, so he kicks it aside and doesn’t stop until they’re in the middle of the coppice. There he halts and starts lowering the stretcher to the ground.

The first vehicle, a police car, has entered the premises, screeching to a halt not twenty yards from the hole in the ground that was the Moran manor until a few hours ago.

“Holy Christ,” the constable jumping out of the vehicle yells. “What the…” The bright beam of a flashlight travels over the ground. “Hello,” the man calls. “Anybody there? Can you talk? An ambulance is on its way. Please try to call out if you can.”

“Jesus,” his colleague says, flicking on another light. “That must have been a blast.”

“Yes, can’t see how anyone would survive this. Hello, anybody there? This is the police, we’re here to help you.”

“And?” John whispers into Mycroft’s ear. 

“I’m beginning to believe I may have been overly cautious.”

“Well, better safe than sorry,” John grunts. In the darkness, Mycroft smiles. “So you want to approach them?”

“Yes,” Mycroft decides. 

While they’re weaving their way out of the shrubbery an ambulance skids to a halt behind the police car. Two men jump out and run towards the police officers. “Hello,” John cries in his sternest RAMC voice, “over here. Have your gurney at the ready.”

The men run around to the back of the ambulance to wheel out the gurney. The moment they deliver their precious cargo into the hands of the ambulance personnel, John begins talking to them straightaway in clipped doctor’s tones, ordering them about. Reasoning Sherlock is receiving the best medical care available Mycroft tunes him out in favour of organising their evacuation. He turns away from the little group and fixes his stare on the policeman who’s approaching him instead.

“Sir, hello, could you tell me…” the man begins. Mycroft interrupts him with a curt nod. “Good evening, constable, my name is Mycroft Holmes. I realise the name means nothing to you now, but it will remain with you for the rest of your life. Whether that will be in a pleasant or a less agreeable capacity depends on the speed with which you hand me your phone.” Palm upwards, he stretches out his hand towards the constable.

“Sir. What…”

“Your phone, if you please.” Wriggling his fingers impatiently, Mycroft tips down his chin. “Thank you, Constable Thomas,” he adds as the man fumbles in his pocket for the requested item. “Or rather _Inspector_ Thomas.” The constable gapes at him. Even in the muted moonlight, it is not a very attractive sight so Mycroft turns his back on the man after accepting the mobile and starts punching the keys.

The call is answered at the third ring. “Uhm, Wilkinson speaking,” Wilkinson’s sleep-addled voice announces.

“Wilkinson, my sincere apologies for waking you at this hour,” Mycroft says. The ambient noise informs him Wilkinson practically bolts upright in his bed, no doubt waking up that dull fiancée of his in the process. 

“Sir!” Wilkinson is all attention, already reaching for the notebook and pen on his night stand. 

“I’m currently standing at a crime scene somewhere in the Lake District without my ID or my phone,” Mycroft says. “Arrange for the authorities, the police in particular, to be aware of my presence here and their full cooperation. Also, I want a trauma helicopter at West Cumberland Hospital,” here Mycroft pauses for confirmation from the constable who eagerly provides it by bobbing his head up and down in quick succession, “to transport a patient to the _St Edward_. Have them prepare a suite there and tell them a doctor will contact them shortly with further instructions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see you there in five hours. I want three fresh sets of clothes, shoes, and the same for Dr John Watson. And make a note for the promotion of Constable Thomas of the Cumbria police to the rank of Inspector, while you’re at it.”

“Yes, sir. You can count on me, sir,” Wilkinson warbles. Mycroft ends the call. Behind them more cars keep arriving. Soon the place will be swarming with incompetents, trampling over the little evidence remaining between the rubbish. Shuddering at the idea Mycroft hits the numbers that will connect him to his most trusted servant. The constable hovers close at his side. Mycroft turns to give him the cold shoulder once more.

“Yes.”

“I’m at his estate. I’ll have the place locked up. Fly in your best men to go over the grounds. I want no single scrap of paper left behind. Also, my luggage is at the inn in the nearest village, as well as Dr Watson’s. Have it collected, room safe included. I’ll be at the _St Edward_ in a few hours. My usual rooms. I want the place swept by the time we arrive, four secure lines in the rooms and a surveillance team installed. Meet me there tomorrow morning at nine. Oh, and I want a mobile until mine is retrieved from the hotel. Give Wilkinson the number.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. “The people at Baker Street are free to go,” he adds. “My brother’s former flatmate will tell them so. They should remain under surveillance, grade three active, I think, Miss Morstan included.”

“Yes.”

“That’s all for now.”

The instant Mycroft ends the call the other policeman comes running up towards them. “Thomas!” he shouts, “Thomas! I spoke to Superintendent Davies just now. This gentleman here is a Mr Mycroft Holmes. We should do whatever he asks of us. Oh, look, Inspectors Fox and Bell have just arrived. Hello, Inspector.” He starts jogging in their direction.

With a raised eyebrow Mycroft hands the former constable his mobile. “Thank you, Inspector Thomas,” he says. “You’ve been extremely helpful.”

“My pleasure, sir.” The man grins at him. “And thank _you_. On behalf of my wife and kids as well.”

“Choose the narrow path always, Inspector, and you’ll come a long way yet.”

“Yes, sir. So you want us to start sealing off the place, sir?”

Mycroft smiles his approval at him. “Bright boy,” he says and walks off in the direction of the ambulance where they’re busy loading Sherlock into the vehicle. 

All that remains visible of his brother is his face, a splash of white, emerging from a swaddle of orange blankets. “I really want to be off to the hospital now,” John tells Mycroft. “We need to sedate him properly. That’s going to be difficult enough, as we haven’t the faintest what Moran has fed him.”

“We’ll go in thirty seconds,” Mycroft assures him. “Officer Fox!”

One of the new arrivals jogs over from the small group of conferring police officers. “Yes, sir.”

“I take it Inspector Thomas has informed you of my wishes. See to it they are followed to the letter,” Mycroft says. “An investigation team will arrive soon to take over from you. Please be so good as to assist them with every possible means.” The man bobs his head up and down with so much enthusiasm Mycroft is momentarily afraid it may fall off. “Yes, sir.”

“Fine.” Mycroft turns towards John again. “I suggest you sit with him,” he says.

John’s hand shoots upwards to grab Mycroft’s bicep and squeeze. Mycroft looks down at his arm in surprise. “Right,” John mumbles. He throws Mycroft a quick smile and makes a dash for the back of the ambulance. 

“Sir.” Inspector Thomas is holding the door on the passenger side for him. Now he’s about to sit down Mycroft realises how dead-tired he is. 

“Thank you, Inspector,” he murmurs before literally falling into the seat. His feet hurt, blood flowing freely from the cuts, and he suddenly finds himself shivering, uncontrollably. He instructs his brain to will his body to stop, repeating the order when clammy ripples keep rolling down his spine. To his dismay his brain refuses to listen to him.

“There you are.” Someone drapes an orange blanket over him. A part of his mind recoils at the hideous colour. The urge to remove the atrocity is imminent, but it does feel comfy and warm so he decides to comply for the time being. “Very good,” the voice continues. “We’ll be back at the hospital in no time.”

The vehicle shudders to life; the throb of the engine fills Mycroft’s ears with a soothing lullaby. His head is very heavy, it keeps dropping to the left. At last he gives in and rests it against the window. He tells himself that he’ll close his eyes for just a moment. 

***

Three hours later they’re on their way to London. Mycroft keeps turning in his seat to look at Sherlock, the impossible paleness of his face between the grimy shock of curls and the aluminium blanket covering his body. At least he’s locked away in deep sleep and his features have eased somewhat. The ridges of his cheekbones stand out less sharp against the sunken planes of his cheeks. It’s a torture not to be able to reach out and trail his fingers along the line of Sherlock’s jaw.

Next to Sherlock John sits conferring with the advanced trauma doctor. Sherlock’s hand rests in his and John sweeps his thumb back and forth with the steady monotony of a windshield wiper. The motion continues when he lifts his eyes towards Mycroft and throws him a tired smile. The sympathy pouring from the deep dark blue pools between the crinkles causes Mycroft to swivel and stare resolutely out of the window. All the impotence and rage he’s endured during the past months have returned in full force to agonise him. He temples his hands in front of his mouth and forces himself through a series of deep breaths. Two minutes of self-pity for feeling totally useless, he’ll give himself those, and then he’ll start compiling a list of tasks for Wilkinson first, an even longer roll for Zero after. His men will start digging in the rubble in a few hours to unearth evidence. Perhaps they’ll find a safe; that would be so convenient. A small safe containing, amongst all the other incriminating paperwork, an inventory of names and aliases for Mycroft to pursue – and eliminate – each and every one of them.

***

The helicopter touches the surface of the landing pad and immediately they’re surrounded by hospital personnel. The gurney holding Sherlock’s body is wheeled into yet another ambulance, John hops in beside him and the ambulance speeds away. 

“This way, sir,” a respectful voice directs him. He recognises its pitch, one of Zero’s men, waiting for him at the prescribed distance. 

“Thank you.” He slides into the backseat of the waiting sedan. At the entrance to _St Edward_ ’s John receives him, together with the operations manager who wastes minutes of his time to bide him welcome and thank him for his trust in the hospital’s services. Impatiently, Mycroft waves off the pompous pest, smiling all the while.

“Now,” he says, when John and he are alone in the room adjourning Sherlock’s at last. “Tell me.” With a heavy sigh John sits down and starts scrubbing a hand over his face.

“They’ll do an MRI first to check for internal damage. Once that’s done they’ll start operating straightaway,” he begins. “His rectum is in shreds, the tissue has been ruptured and healed badly time and again. He must have been living in constant pain. I can’t even begin to imagine the agony he must have endured whenever he had to relieve himself. They’ll give him a loop colostomy, temporary of course. I wish we could provide him with a different solution as most people consider the pouch extremely humiliating, for all the obvious reasons, but it’s not to be helped.”

Here John halts to regard Mycroft who nods for him to continue. John heaves another deep breath. “We’re also testing for STD’s and the different types of drugs he’s been given. We suspect opiates mostly, but well, the tests will tell us. We’ll start a detox program as soon as possible.” 

“And?”

“He misses two molars on the right. Must have happened quite recently as the tissue inside his mouth is still swollen and his teeth haven’t started adjusting themselves to the extra space yet.” Again, John stops speaking.

“Pray continue,” Mycroft urges. He discovers he’s been driving his nails into the flesh of his palms. With great deliberation he loosens his fists. If Sherlock has been able to live through such extensive cruelty, surely he can suffer listening to the short version, here in the comfortable surroundings of a hospital room.

“He’s been tortured,” John goes on. “His legs are covered with burns from stabbed-out cigarettes. The skin of his back is a mess of welts. Christ… a whole army of sadists has had a go at him. I wish I could get my hands on… one of them at least.”

Mycroft raises himself from his chair, a tad too abruptly perhaps, but the hint of brusqueness is preferable by far to betraying the emotions that must be visible in the purse of his lips. Already John has learned far more about Mycroft than Mycroft has ever cared to give away to anyone, except for Sherlock. He feels naked, in his stained trousers and without his jacket. His feet have been attended to while they were waiting for the helicopter to arrive, but they’re bare and vulnerable in his badly scuffed shoes that chafe at his skin despite their lining of soft antelope leather.

“That will be my task,” he says. “Yours will be to heal Sherlock.”

“He’ll need therapy.” John’s voice is soft, hesitant. “I gather…” He huffs self-depreciatingly. “Money is no object, judging by our present surroundings, so you’ll need to find him the best therapist money can buy.”

If only all difficulties were that easy to solve. “I don’t think Sherlock would react favourably to a therapist,” Mycroft dismisses the suggestion. 

“Yeah,” John agrees. “I know. That’s why you’ll have to pay up. The staff here is extremely helpful, already asking around on your behalf. I’d say you might need a few sessions yourself.”

“Please, John.” Mycroft pivots on his heels to glare at his brother’s former flatmate. “I prefer to think of you as my brother’s physician, not mine. Of course I’ll pay for a therapist, if you can find Sherlock one that won’t walk out on him at the first session, but I fail to see the point. Must I remind you Sherlock and I proved the inadequacy of _your_ therapist within hours of meeting you?”

The infuriating man shakes his head. “Mycroft, that’s exactly why I think you’ll need to talk with a therapist too. I’m sorry to tell you your problems, and Sherlock’s, are, sadly, rather common. Sherlock is a rape victim…” Mycroft raises his hand but John pushes on with the blind determination of a soldier in the midst of the fray. “You know I… he was _raped_ and tortured, Mycroft, for months! It is… no one can come out of this with his sense of self-worth intact. He’s broken, Mycroft, hopefully not beyond repair. And I think you’re damaged as well. Because Moran managed to break into your power complex and sabotage your system by injuring the one person you actually care about.” He licks his lips and stares at Mycroft, daring him to deny his analysis.

Mycroft is about to open his mouth and give him a piece of his mind – the abridged version approved for public perusal – when a deferential knock on the door rings through the room. “One moment, please,” Mycroft calls. He looks back at John.

“Are you done?” he enquires. John nods. “Good. You don’t have to thank me for allowing you to get that of your chest. You have leave to engage that therapist if you must, but don’t come complaining if Sherlock sends him or her away. Now, if you’ll excuse me, that’s my assistant bringing us fresh clothes and a load of work. Duty calls, as ever. I suggest you have yourself a well-deserved shower and enjoy a nice long breakfast after. You can call Miss Morstan if you’re so inclined, she’s still at Baker Street. Tell her they’re all free to go. You can use the landline here, it’s secure. Or you can go over there, if you’d rather.”

During his speech John’s face has darkened and he’s begun to swallow quite hard, no doubt preparing to tell Mycroft he’s a proper bastard. Mycroft pre-empts this move by begging Wilkinson to enter. The young man’s aspect is one of barely concealed nervousness; his eyes darting around from the hospital beds and the stainless steel sink on the wall next to the door towards Mycroft and John, and back to the unwieldy stack of attachés in his arms. Behind him a lesser civil servant trails at a respectful distance, wheeling three suitcases into the room. 

“Good morning, sir,” Wilkinson greets Mycroft and focuses his attention on ordering about _his_ minion. “This is your suitcase, and here’s Doctor Watson’s.” He shoots him a quick glance. “Good morning, doctor, pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says, sounding a bit uncertain.

“Yeah, likewise,” John smiles at the young man while accepting his suitcase, and making for the bathroom next. “Thank you.”

“We’ll adjourn to the other room,” Mycroft tells him, gesturing Wilkinson towards the room that connects Sherlock’s to theirs. “I’ll see you later, John.”

Until that moment Wilkinson has been too busy dispelling his apprehension, directing his assistant and making John’s acquaintance to pay Mycroft much attention. Only now does he properly look at Mycroft whose lips quirk inwardly as he catalogues the young man’s reaction to his appearance. Wilkinson blanches, blinks his eyelids rapidly a few times, and lowers his gaze down to his own shoes – black leather buffed to a shine so bright the toecaps reflect the room like a miniature Escher woodcut – and sends it crawling along the floor to the dull and dirty tips of Mycroft’s shoes. His Adam’s apple bobs as he locks eyes with Mycroft at last. Mycroft pulls his lips wide. “I’ve had a long night, Wilkinson,” he says. “Shall we?”

In Sherlock’s room Mycroft gestures at the table that’s arranged beneath the window with two chairs and sports an outrageous flower arrangement provided by the hospital to welcome their esteemed patient and his entourage. Wilkinson lets go of the handle of the suitcase he’s been pulling and drops the stack of folders onto a chair so he can shove the flowers aside. 

“Why don’t you put them in the other room?” Mycroft suggests helpfully. He watches Wilkinson’s straining back and, sighing, draws out the other chair and seats himself at the now empty table. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft says when the young man re-enters. Immediately, his PA begins industriously organising files on the table, tilting his chin to indicate he’s listening to whatever further instructions Mycroft might wish to give. He bends over repeatedly to scoop fresh stacks of dossiers out of the suitcase.

Mycroft observes the proceedings from behind the heavy drapery of his lashes. The light blue slivers of Wilkinson’s shirt cuffs, peeping from the hem of his dark-grey jacket sleeves, flit above the listless beige of the table top like a pair of exotic dragonflies and Mycroft looses himself in their mating dance. Up and down they swoop and over and around the moulded hills of folders that grow and grow until a small mountain range covers the whole width of the table. Mycroft watches the high peaks in dismay, his left hand holding on to the wrist of his right to keep it from drifting upwards to rub at his forehead. He’s tired; so very, very tired.

“Sir?” Wilkinson’s voice prods him, softly, deferentially. The cuffs are resting now, each hovering at its side of the young civil servant standing to attention next to Mycroft’s chair. 

After fortifying himself with a deep breath Mycroft motions for Wilkinson to sit down next to him. 

“Tell me, Wilkinson,” he asks. “How are your sisters?”

“M… my… my sisters, sir?” stammers Wilkinson. “Why, fine. How…”

“Never mind,” Mycroft waves away the questions with a weary flick of his wrist. “I have a brother, Wilkinson. Maybe you’re aware of the fact.”

Wilkinson twitches uneasily on his chair, fighting the fierce flush creeping up out of his collar.

“I am, sir. But he… last year. It was in the papers, sir. And on the news…”

“My brother’s suicide, yes. It was a fairy tale, Wilkinson, though not a happy one, I’m afraid. This one was more reminiscent of a primitive myth.” 

The quiet tension that was left hanging in the room after Wilkinson’s excellent show of industry converges in the set of Wilkinson’s shoulders inside the armour of his jacket. 

“Sir?”

“My brother was abducted and held hostage these past months for purposes likely to remain obscure. His captors never approached me for money or demands for an abuse of my position. If they wanted to make believe he was dead; they almost succeeded in doing so. Two days ago I discovered the truth.”

It is difficult to determine whether the soft glow radiating from Wilkinson’s face is the effect of the sun’s first tentative rays pushing themselves through the heavy fog that’s blanketing London or a hero worship more profound than that of any teenage girl. If it is, as Mycroft suspects, the latter, Mycroft won’t have much explaining to do.

“My brother and I have never been close,” he huffs in his blandest tone. “He is, however, the only family I’ve left.”

His assistant’s head bobs up and down in fervent understanding. “That’s sentiment I suppose,” Mycroft presses his advantage. This causes Wilkinson’s head to move up and down even more enthusiastically. “Sir,” he croaks, sympathy flowing from features in a steady stream of compassion. Mycroft observes his PA from beneath heavy lids. Addicted to ludicrous saccharinity, the boy is nothing but a product of the welfare state that raised him. Still, he is young and eager to learn. And brave. In showing Wilkinson the battlefield Mycroft will make be able to make something of him yet.

“Thank you,” he now says simply. It’s praise enough for Wilkinson to draw him away from particularising clarifications Mycroft is loath to give and onto their daily charge of governing a nation and, through it, the world.

“What have you got for me?” 

The enquiry has Wilkinson springing to his feet to point out which dossiers require Mycroft’s special attention. 

“There were three files marked ‘TOP SECRET’. I left them in the safe at the office.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft compliments. “I’ll drop by at the office tomorrow to give them a once over. Now, of course I won’t take a pass onmy weekly talk with the PM, nor my Friday tea with the Queen, but you’ll have to take on all the committees for the next three weeks or so, oh, and the meeting with the representatives of the Welsh and Scottish parliaments next week.” 

“Oh.” The skin around Wilkinson’s nose pales a little. 

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft shushes him. “You have done fine in the past and you’ll do excellent now. Just let them do the talking, which they will be happy to do. Exasperatingly so, in fact. The more they talk the better.”

“You’ll want minutes.”

“The abridged versions, yes. Your subordinate struck me as someone who might be up to the task. Don’t bring him to the meeting with the Joint Intelligence Committee, though. That you will have to handle all by yourself. I’m afraid those transcripts will have to be complete, with a short description of gestures and expressions of the various members during the discussion.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. That will be all, Wilkinson. I’ll send you further instructions by text some time during the day. You have the number of my temporary mobile? Good. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” 

Effectively dismissed, Wilkinson jumps to his feet. “Thank you. And sir…” He swallows a few times, gathering courage. “I do hope your brother will be better soon.”

“Why, thank you, Wilkinson. I’m sure the staff here will give it their best.”

“Yes, sir.” With those words Wilkinson almost bows himself out of the room, suitcase dragging behind him. 

Alone again Mycroft sweeps the stacks of files with a wary eye. He’s too tired to head out into those mountains yet. His pocket watch informs him he has twenty minutes left until Zero’s arrival. Resolving to make good use of the time he steps out of the room to order a breakfast from one of the men hovering in the corridor and collects his suitcase to spread out its contents on the bed. He decides upon the combination of the midnight blue pinstripe with the seashell white shirt and Imperial red tie and pocket square. His oxblood brogues complement the ensemble quite nicely. 

The soap in the shower smells horribly cheap and artificial. Mycroft crinkles his nose in distaste. This is _St Edward_. Surely they should know better than to provide their clientele with such an inferior brand. However, he looks a fright – mentally Mycroft salutes Wilkinson for taking his superior’s unusual appearance in his stride – so there’s nothing for it but to grit his teeth and use the atrocious stuff to clean himself. He’ll have John ask Mrs Hudson to make a quick round of the shops today as Emma won’t be back until the end of the week.

The breakfast, Mycroft is pleased to discover, surpasses the quality of the toiletries. Or perhaps hunger is the best sauce after all, for his stomach starts rumbling wildly as his nose inhales the aroma that wafts up from the coffee pot, fortified with the greasy overtones of the scrambled eggs and rashers of bacon draped artificially on a plate with several slices of toast and a generous heap of Jersey butter.

He’s polished off his plate and is about to pour himself another cup of coffee when there is a short knock on the door.

“Pray enter,” he calls out and replaces his cup in the saucer. Zero strides into the room in his usual brisk manner, an attaché case dangling from his right hand. Quickly, he appraises Mycroft, his piercing gaze travelling over his employer’s form. Mycroft returns the stare evenly.

“So, you got out without a scratch?” Zero tips up his chin in a request for permission to seat himself on a chair opposite Mycroft. The chin moves into the opposite direction when Mycroft raises the coffee pot in an enquiring gesture.

“Some minor cuts and bruises,” replies Mycroft, pouring his minion a cup. “Nothing to brag home about. The experiment proved irrefutably fieldwork is no longer my natural milieu.”

Zero accepts the cup, lifts it to his mouth and grins, eyeing Mycroft over the rim. “Did you get what you went in for?” He sips his coffee with tentatively pursed lips.

“More or less. Moran made the fatal mistake of mixing business with personal enmity. My brother is in a bad way, but he’ll live.”

Sherlock will _have_ to, Mycroft needs him to heal and prosper in recurrent refutation of Moran’s bid to disrupt and destroy what’s best and brightest, both in Mycroft and in his life. For a fleeting moment Mycroft is straddling the satanic monster again, lifting the heavy weight of the decanter to hammer at the snarling face. Over and over and over… 

“That’s good.” The words rouse Mycroft from his reverie. “It must have been a volatile mixture indeed; the team sent me some photographs.” Zero spends some time placing the cup on the saucer. “I’d say you did rather well for a man outside his usual element.”

Mycroft huffs. “There’s always the element of surprise. A fearful weapon, as long as one doesn’t become addicted to it. That’s what caused Moran’s downfall, in the end. The sticky threads of the ingenious web he’d woven.”

“A lot of threads,” Zero affirms, swinging the attaché case onto his knees and popping open the locks with a twist of his thumbs. “Yesterday evening we found evidence of the man’s ownership of half the opium poppy fields in Afghanistan, with his own processing plant to boot. It seems Moran didn’t believe in flooding the market with inferior… excuse me.” 

The insistent buzz of Zero’s phone has him reach for his jacket pocket. A tight little smile of satisfaction tugs at his lips while his eyes scan the text. His thumb flicks over the screen to open an attachment and he angles the mobile for Mycroft to have a look at the picture on the screen.

“They found the safe.”

Excitement stirs in Mycroft’s veins. “Please.” Zero gives him the mobile so Mycroft can study the photograph in detail. 

“He didn’t believe in buying inferior quality either,” he assesses after a while, handing over the mobile to his minion who appreciates the view before slipping the phone into his pocket. “I want to be there when it’s being opened.”

“I can have a team of experts ready at four this afternoon.”

“No,” Mycroft rejects the suggestion. “I don’t know what time my brother will be out of surgery. I’ll let you know what time will suit me.”

“Fine. Anything else?”

“I’ll text you a list later today. Do you have anything of interest in that case of yours? Unless it’s nothing but samples of some of the wares Moran dealt in.”

Predictably, Zero’s snort is devoid of true amusement. “Stock this hospital with some first-class opioids, no. You will be interested in these accounts, though.”

His hand comes up with a thick sheaf of papers. Mycroft accepts them and arranges them on top of one of Wilkinson’s mountains before awarding his employee with a bland smile of approval. “Excellent.” 

Trained to perfection as he is Zero recognises the dismissal and clicks the attaché case shut. “Shall I send you an hourly update?”

“That’ll do.”

After rising from his chair Zero nods and starts to turn towards the door. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft says. It’s a weakness, but somehow it’s essential Zero understands Mycroft is indebted to him for his unswerving loyalty and reliability. They have a contract, of course; Mycroft pays him to be loyal and reliable, and a handsome amount it is. But contracts can be renegotiated or repudiated, and Mycroft hates to think of the trouble he’d be in, should Zero ever contemplate switching sides. Naturally, he has enough on Zero to make such a choice highly inadvisable, a fact Zero must be all too aware of, but still…

God, he’s so tired. He should sleep, even if just for an hour or so.

The door falls shut with a hardly audible thud. Startled, Mycroft reaches for the coffee pot to find it empty. He makes it all the way to the bed to ring the bell. 

***


	2. And pray, and sing…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is just one thing in the world Mycroft can’t handle, the crippling sense of having failed his little brother. How do other people deal with such situations? Their life, as far as Mycroft can see, is mostly one disruptive chaos of botched relationships, financial worries and housing problems, addled with the difficulties of employment and trying not to bungle the self-inflicted task of raising their children. Perhaps, a daily dose of inadequacy serves to make people immune to adversity? It would certainly explain the empty gazes Mycroft has often noticed flicking past the window of his car as he is being driven around London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the awesome frozen_delight.
> 
> Many thanks to wellington_goose for checking on the medical info.

Refreshed by his one-hour nap Mycroft sits down at the table and lifts the first file from the stack furthest on the left. During the next few hours the prevailing silence in the room is interrupted solely by the occasional scratch of his pen and the soft rustle of paper as he turns the pages. At half past one he orders a salad with _Parlick Fell_ cheese and walnuts for his lunch with a bottle of _Hildon_ sparkling water. He dedicates himself to the food, savouring the slightly salty taste of the cheese against his palate, offset by the crispy freshness of the dandelion salad leaves and the earthy flavour of the walnuts. Once he’s finished he lifts himself from his chair for a brief spin around the suite and installs himself at the table again for yet more work. 

It’s important that he keep himself occupied, whether with the task of surveying the British government or concentrating on feeding himself. With each minute that passes Mycroft finds himself more worried. His right hand twitches, the nib of his pen precariously close to the carefully composed paragraph in the final draft of the trade agreement with Brazil. Annoyed, he pushes back the curse that wells up in his throat, and jots down a reminder on the notepad he keeps perched on the edge of the table for Wilkinson to enquire after the treaty with South-Korea. 

Sherlock has been in surgery for what feels like half a day now. More than anything Mycroft wants to jump up from his chair, fling open the door to the room, stride down the corridors and straight into the operating theatre to demand why the _hell_ they’re taking so long operating on his brother. He wastes precious seconds fantasising about fisting his hands into the lapels of some obnoxious surgeon to interrogate the man as to the reasons they didn’t finish their job hours ago. Several times he raises himself to his feet and reaches for the bell next to the bed, telling himself he can ask for a report – an assurance everything will be fine, that’s all, really – only to sit down again and pull over the next file. His pen hovers above the text, spots a typo, and swoops down to gently point it out. After reading the rest of the letter in front of him he signs it and makes another note, this one a request for Wilkinson to provide him with the latest survey on the substitutability of the G-SIB’s on the FSB list.

Later John rings to tell Mycroft he’s going over to Battersea to organise a few days leave at the practice and to enquire whether Sherlock is already out of surgery. Mycroft informs him in his blandest tones that Sherlock isn’t but John is not to worry. After they ring off he temples his hands in front of his mouth and spends what feels like minutes staring out of the window.

The dense fog that enveloped the hospital the whole day is thickening with the onset of night when there is a knock on the door. A pair of nurses greet Mycroft deferentially and proceed to wheel the bed out of Sherlock’s room into the corridor and to roll in another bed, dragging along an IV-stand from which several bottles swing as smoothly as thuribles, infusing the still form laid out on the mattress with new vigour and health.

“There you are,” one of the nurses says, smiling at Mycroft. “He did well, Mr Holmes. Dr Knightley will be with you in five minutes.” He turns back toward Sherlock to aid his colleague in checking the bottles on the IV stand and straightening the blanket and then they walk out, leaving Mycroft alone with his sibling.

A low moan reverberates through the room, startling Mycroft, and with a shock he realises the sound wasn’t issued by Sherlock’s but his own throat. He huffs, depreciatingly, and adjusts his tie which doesn’t need adjusting, prevaricating because, suddenly, he’s loath to look at Sherlock. His gaze latches itself onto the floor beneath the bed instead. It takes an enormous effort of will to raise it higher and fasten it on the figure resting on the mattress. The thin sheet and blanket drop from the width of his shoulders with the artificial grace of a sculpted shroud, and the rise and fall of Sherlock’s ribcage is so shallow a casual observer would easily be led to believe he was viewing either a corpse or the supremely rendered likeness of one.

Mycroft pushes himself up from his chair to circle the bed so he can look at Sherlock’s face. Even in drug-induced sleep his brother’s brow is furrowed beneath the filthy locks of hair tumbling over his forehead. The skin on his lips is flaked and crusted with dried saliva, his breath rasps uneasily and he coughs, once, before resuming his breathing. Carefully, Mycroft rakes his fingers through the tangled curls, suppressing the nausea that rises in his gorge as his finger pads encounter the grime and dirt and grease that appear to coat each hair on Sherlock’s head. Drawn irresistibly to the skin that waxes pale as the moon over the sunken cheek, Mycroft’s thumb caresses the high cheekbone rising high above. He nearly sobs with relief when Sherlock doesn’t shy away from the touch, but rather appears to surge up into it. 

Then, tentatively, he reaches to lift the covers and fold them back to reveal the whole expanse of his brother’s tortured body. Quickly he stores every welt, every burn, every patch of broken skin on the ledges lining the walls of the small chamber – an almost perfect copy of Sherlock’s prison cell – he’s dug in his mind. His fingers skim over the dressing blossoming low on Sherlock’s abdomen, the swaddle on his backside. The contrast between the pure white of the bandages and the bruised and abused skin they cover has him ball his fists in impotent rage. He cards his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again. Its dirtied state disgusts him.

The quick rap of knuckles ringing through the room rouses Mycroft from his anger. “Come in,” he calls, hastily flexing his fingers so he can use them to pull up the covers over Sherlock’s body again.

“Mr Holmes.” A woman breezes into the room and reaches for his hand to pump it up and down a few times with a strength belying her small frame. The plate on her breast tells Mycroft this is Dr Knightley. “Let me assure you straightaway your brother is doing extremely well, considering the circumstances,” she says. Her eyes flit over his face, narrow, and start scanning the room. “Dr Watson is not in, I see?”

“No, Dr Watson went out this morning. I expect he will be back shortly.”

“No matter.” Dr Knightley throws Mycroft a brisk smile and lets go of his hand. “He can read the chart. Excuse me, please.” She glides past him to the IV-stand and fusses slightly with the bottles. “We’ll keep your brother heavily sedated the first few days so he can recuperate a bit,” she says. “The anaesthetist will come to check on him shortly.” After stashing her hands into the pockets of her white coat she pivots towards Mycroft.

“Shall we sit down?” he invites her, gesturing in the direction of the table. “I surmise you’ve been standing on your feet for hours. Would you like some tea, perhaps?”

“No.” Dr Knightley shakes her head. “No time, alas, we’re quite busy at the moment. Don’t let that worry you, however. I want you to hold me personally responsible for the care your brother will receive in this hospital.”

“I will,” Mycroft murmurs. “Did the operation go according to plan?”

Dr Knightley smiles again and leans forward in her chair. “Yes,” she says simply, a pleased expression chasing away the exhaustion lurking in the deep lines running from her nose to the corners of her mouth. “Considering the circumstances, I think we did a good job, yes. Your brother isn’t in the best of conditions, but he’s young, and, essentially, healthy. Dr Watson explained about the conditions…” Her mask of brisk professionalism crumples for a moment. “Anyway,” she recovers herself, “right now rest is the best cure and we’ll start to feed your brother up a bit in a week or so. The MRI showed no lasting internal damage, except for three broken ribs from a beating he must have endured a few weeks ago, but those are healing nicely of their own accord, and rather severe bruising of his abdominal muscles. Very painful, but no lasting damage. His Brain CT did not show any signs of haemorrhage or oedema.”

“Good.” Ignoring her scrutiny of his face, Mycroft smiles for Dr Knightley to continue. 

“Both HIV tests were negative. We’ll have to wait a few more days for the results of the other STD tests, I’m afraid. We checked for tissue damage or other signs of infection, and your brother shows the symptoms of having contracted gonorrhoea. We’re already treating that with antibiotics.”

“I see.” 

“Do you have any questions?” Dr Knightley asks. 

“Not really, no. You’ve been perfectly clear and Dr Watson had already explained what to expect.” Mycroft ignores the stunned expression on her face. Apparently she had prepared herself for an extensive interrogation. “Dr Watson assured me the temporary stoma wouldn’t cause any additional discomfort. That in this moment is my main concern, my brother should be as comfortable as possible.”

“We endeavour to ensure that, Mr Holmes.”

“And I’m most grateful to you that you do.” Mycroft inclines his head. “Is there anything else you wish to convey at this moment?”

“You’re sure you don’t have any questions?” Dr Knightley asks.

Mycroft gives her a reassuring smile. “No. Please, don’t let me keep you any longer. You must have other patients to look after.” Pushing back his chair Mycroft rises and presses her hand. “Thank you for everything you’ve done so far.” He holds open the door for her and accompanies her out of the room. In the corridor he waves down a passing nurse, “Could you step in for a moment, please?”

“Yes, sir.” Obediently the young man walks into the suite with him. 

“Look here.” Mycroft positions himself beside the bed and stabs his finger in the direction of the supine figure stretched out on the mattress. “This won’t do,” he says. “The head and extremities of your patient are as filthy as they were when he was wheeled into this hospital this morning. I want you to remedy that straightaway.” 

The nurse blinks and stares at him with the stunned look of a rabbit caught in the headlights. “Also…” Pivoting on his heel so he ends up facing the bed Mycroft pinches the hem of the sheet between a disapproving thumb and forefinger. “I want my brother to be as comfortable as possible. These sheets aren’t soft enough; the thread-count is unacceptably low. Find some proper sheets. While you’re at it you can fetch him a cashmere blanket as well, I happen to know you do stock those somewhere in the premises, that will do a better job of keeping my brother warm than this barely adequate cottony… thing.”

“Sir,” the nurse begins protesting.

“Just do it,” Mycroft bites out. “Now!”

“Sir!” If the man had known how to give a salute he would have. Instead, he blinks quickly several times, tugs at the border of his jacket and bolts for the door. Left alone with Sherlock Mycroft staggers and collapses onto a chair. He presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets so hard the fireworks exploding in his eyes threaten to blind him. For a fleeting moment he pretends Moran is still alive and metes out all conceivable forms of punishment to him, then he shifts his hands lower and temples them in front of his mouth to breathe deeply into them several times. Moran is dead, and upbraiding every member of the hospital staff won’t speed Sherlock’s recovery, and if only it were Mycroft lying there and not Sherlock. A fresh bout of despair exploding in his chest has him reaching for Sherlock’s hand and rest his forehead against the flesh that’s as cold and hard as marble.

There is just one thing in the world Mycroft can’t handle, the crippling sense of having failed his little brother. How do other people deal with such situations? Their life, as far as Mycroft can see, is mostly one disruptive chaos of botched relationships, financial worries and housing problems, addled with the difficulties of employment and trying not to bungle the self-inflicted task of raising their children. Perhaps, a daily dose of inadequacy serves to make people immune to adversity? It would certainly explain the empty gazes Mycroft has often noticed flicking past the window of his car as he is being driven around London.

“Hey.” A hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes softly before falling away. Mycroft shudders, once, and relinquishes his hold on Sherlock’s fingers. John is at his side, just outside Mycroft’s personal space, very deliberately not looking down at Mycroft but over to Sherlock, simultaneously reaching for the chart tucked in its holder at the end of the bed.

“John,” Mycroft croaks. He coughs. “You have an uncanny aptitude for bearing down on me in my weakest moments.” To his relief his voice has recovered its customary pitch by the end of the sentence. 

“Ta,” John answers, shooting Mycroft an amused glance over the chart board. “I’ll enjoy them while they last. There won’t be that many, seeing as you were almost wholly back to pompous git mode this morning.”

“At least you’re not giggling,” huffs Mycroft. “I suppose I should offer my thanks to some obscure celestial being for that small mercy.” 

He puts both hands on the edge of the mattress to leverage himself up from the chair so he can tower over John once more. Unintimidated by the sudden switch in height John just stares up at him, the folds of skin around his eyes crinkling in what, to Mycroft, looks like almost wistful tenderness.

“Know what?” John says. “As soon as Sherlock is lucid again I’m going to tell him what an incredibly lucky sod he is for being so totally loved.”

A deep breath shakes itself out of Mycroft’s throat. To cover up his embarrassment he directs his gaze at Sherlock. Automatically, his fingers reach for the sharp shock of mussed curls that stands out against the various shades of white on the rest of the bed. “You have a rather quaint definition of luck, John. Sherlock’s reciprocation of my feelings has been my constant joy in life, it’s true. Now, however, I wish our enmity had been more than mere pretension for it would have spared him the cruelty he had to endure these past months. If only Moran had taken me.”

Thankfully, instead of reaching out to pat him encouragingly on the arm and start gushing comforting nonsense they both know to be patently false, John steps around the bed.

“Well, that just goes to show you aren’t that clever after all, I guess. Can you imagine Sherlock having to deal with the stress you’ve been suffering since June? And, as you would probably have given up the ghost before Sherlock would have found you, he’d have ended up having to mourn you as well.” Mycroft must look appalled for he adds, “Begging your pardon, but, clogged arteries aside, you’ll agree Sherlock’s body is more used to all kinds of abuse than yours.”

“Not… not that kind of abuse.” Mycroft closes his eyes and shudders. 

“Yes.” John’s voice is soft suddenly, soft and warm. “I understand, Mycroft. I understand completely. You know how I feel about that. But, in the end, once we’ve tackled this, Sherlock I mean, and the two of you together, the fact remains he’s a lucky sod, and you’re as well. Luckier than most people.”

That, it appears, is the last John wishes to impart, for he makes to depart from the room. 

“John!” Mycroft calls, coming back to his senses. When John turns back he says, “I trust you found Miss Morstan well this morning?”

“Yes.” A pleased look overtakes on John’s features. “Yes. They were all fine, though the news gave them rather a jolt. Mrs H didn’t say a word for two minutes straight.” He chuckles and Mycroft raises an eyebrow in appreciation of the rather special event. “When she’d found her speech again she insisted on coming with me to the hospital. Took me a fair bit to persuade her not to. Thankfully, Molly supported me, saying Sherlock would probably not be able to have visitors for a while. Still, it took quite a while to convince her and she nearly made me miss my appointment with my fellow GP’s. They’ll cover for me for a week.”

“That’s very generous,” Mycroft says. “Of course I’ll pay for any expenses…”

“Don’t you dare. Here, I told her not to, but Mrs H hoisted a bag on me with Sherlock’s blue dressing gown and, what she claims is ‘his favourite pair of pyjamas’, his violin and the latest issue of _The Beekeepers Quarterly_. Oh, and she packed a bag of biscuits. Baked them herself.”

***

They take turns keeping watch at Sherlock’s bedside during the night. Each time Mycroft’s head touches his pillow for his few hours of sleep, sheer exhaustion pulls him under. Oblivion crashes over him in billowing tidal waves and he spreads his arms wide to welcome them, diving into the spray with the tireless abandon of the ten-year-old he once was and who discovered, during one of those glorious days of which that particular Devon coast holiday was comprised, that he could ride on the waves and use them to let them wash him ashore if he held his body rigid enough. A few years later, when Sherlock could swim, he’d taught his little brother the trick, and even now, after three decades he can hear Sherlock’s squeals of delight the first time he managed to let himself be towed along for the infinite distance of five whole yards. “I did it, Mycroft! I did it, look!” And Sherlock dove into the next wave, right onto the jellyfish it carried, and after that his tears kept flowing from his eyes until they caught sight of the ice cream Mycroft was summoned by their parents to buy him.

Sherlock has enjoyed a quiet night as well. Under the cashmere blanket even his feet are nice and warm. Every time Mycroft sat down at Sherlock’s bedside again he felt for them, cradling them into his hands and stroking the arches. The previous afternoon John laughed when a pair of nervous nurses appeared to wash Sherlock and change the sheets, spluttering that he’d never realised throwing a tantrum was actually a Holmes family trait. After the nurses left he explained Sherlock was completely oblivious to his surroundings. He could be lying in a clump of nettles and wouldn’t feel discomfited. Mycroft let him prattle on, his hand holding Sherlock’s once again. To him, looking at Sherlock now, the lines creasing Sherlock’s forehead seem softened somehow. And the darkish smudge below his jaw that had so disfigured his beautiful swan neck is gone, which is such a relief. A superficial restoration, certainly, but appearances _are_ important. When Sherlock regains consciousness he must wake up in a clean and airy room, to the sensation of soft sheets against clean skin and with gentle familiar faces beaming at him. Until that time arrives he must be comfortable as well, for who knows what one might register while dwelling in the nether regions of his mind?

After breakfast Mycroft takes his leave of John who’s installed himself at Sherlock’s bedside with a spy novel. In the lobby to the office Wilkinson is standing at the ready, a fresh suitcase at his side. He and Mycroft’s chauffeur switch handles and James departs with the new suitcase to wait for Mycroft in the garage.

“I hope your brother is doing fine, sir,” Wilkinson endeavours to make conversation while they’re being sped upwards by the lift. 

“Thank you, Wilkinson.” Mycroft tilts his head tersely, expediently snapping the line of enquiry. A surreptitious glance in the mirror shows Wilkinson chewing his lip despondently. _Good._

Upstairs Mycroft makes short work of the ‘TOP SECRET’ files, a frown of annoyance etching itself deeper and deeper into his brow while he sits flicking through the hardly exciting information. Suddenly piqued with the outrageous presumption of these people who have the _gall_ to inconvenience him, Mycroft Holmes, by supposing their tedious titbits of gossip worthy of his perusal, a red mist rises in front of his eyes. His time is being wasted. Precious time, the sole commodity he has too little of, with so many far more important things to do. Striding out of his room he throws the whole lot onto Wilkinson’s desk with a curt instruction to ensure the different claimants and petitioners for his attention end up lost in a maze contrived of extremely sticky red tape.

“Will do, sir,” Wilkinson chimes, happy to find himself back in good graces again, but Mycroft is already out in the corridor, making for the backstairs. He doesn’t slow down until the leather of his shoe soles rings loudly on the metal of the stairs that descend into Zero’s domain. At the bottom his trusted minion stands waiting for him with a stack of folders clasped under his right arm.

“It’s in the execution chamber,” he greets Mycroft. 

“Good. You’ve warned your men sufficiently?”

“They know how to duck their head.”

“And they can do it quickly, I hope. I see you’ve been so kind as to bring me some reading material to pass the time.”

“Indeed. The men have done their best to be brief and to the point but it’s rather a lot. In here you’ll find the more sensitive material we’ve collected so far. Not exactly up our alley. Most of it will keep the Crown’s prosecutors occupied for a few years. But there’s also some nasty bombshells in there to trigger a few minor wars, should those serve your interests.”

Mycroft allows his lips to quirk in an appreciative curl. “It is a bit foggy outside so not today, I think. Somehow I believe the contents of that safe will suit the thrill-seeking side of their nature in a manner more beneficial to the general public than starting a riot in some godforsaken country could ever be.”

“No doubt.” The idea doesn’t appear to please Zero, though. “Which brings me to the budget side of things.”

“Oh, don’t dampen my spirits,” Mycroft dismisses the pecuniary details with an airy wave of his hand. “We’ll discuss those later, in your office.” 

By now they’ve arrived in front of the door to which Mycroft led Anthea less than a week ago. At that time he was swaddled in a nebulous blood-red haze, swirling around his head while he stumbled along a valley of fear, dragging his feet through the sharp shards that were all that remained of the precious world that had once been his. The cuts he incurred itch beneath the plaster that’s covering his feet. He welcomes the discomfort for it reminds him that he came out alive, with his enemy slain, his treasure regained and with the hope he holds all the aces to deal the final blow to an ill-gotten empire of crime and vice. His fingertips trail over the door handle. Then he pushes it down, breathes deeply and enters with a breezy, “Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Good morning, sir,” the two men standing on the other side of the safe are quick to answer him.

“Perhaps you’d like a seat, sir?” One of them indicates the chair in a corner of the room. “It might take a while.”

“I have all the time in the world,” Mycroft assures the man. “You understand the former owner of this safe might disapprove of it being opened without his consent and have taken measures accordingly.”

The other man grins. “Yeah. I’m chuffed to have a go at breaking and entering this beauty. She’ll be a bit harder to conquer than a nun with a chastity belt stashed behind a wall of armed guards but you’re not to worry, sir, I’ll get her in the end.”

Mycroft manages not to wrinkle his nose. “A charming assessment if ever I heard one,” he murmurs and installs himself on the chair. 

During the next two hours nothing disturbs the silence of the room but the occasional fierce whispers and heavy grunts of the two men that sit sweating in front of the safe and the regular gentle swish of Mycroft turning over a new leaf, interspersed with the scratch of his pen as he scribbles a direction in the margin. Beside him Zero leans into the wall, his fingers perpetually busy on his phone. The occasional outbreak of swear words causes his head to jerk up briefly before sinking down again once he’s satisfied the men are still on to it. 

“Right, we’re going to open her now,” the man in charge of the dismantling announces. His assistant springs to his feet and lifts up one of the blanket rolls that lie next to him. After folding out the stiff and heavy cloth he carefully arranges it over his colleague, who’s positioned himself flat on his belly in front of the safe. Next he scuttles under the other blanket. Zero checks whether they’re both tucked in properly before joining Mycroft next to the door to the room. 

“Go ahead,” he says. There’s the scratch of fingernails scraping over metal and then the air in the room is rendered asunder by a loud bang, followed by the sound of crumbling masonry. The unpleasant smell of burned gunpowder seeps into Mycroft’s nostrils.

“He didn’t believe in half-measures,” Zero remarks. 

“So it seems,” Mycroft agrees, drawing forth a handkerchief to dab at his nostrils.

“No, wait!” Another shot erupts, its echo reverberating around the walls. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, you nasty _cunt_!” yelps one of the men from beneath his cover. The rough expletive rings around the room. Having spent some time stretched horizontal on a cold floor with bullets flying over his head only two days ago, Mycroft can’t but concur with the sentiment, though he would, perhaps, have chosen a less strident phrasing himself. Zero, however, is less tolerant. 

“Language,” he barks, looking extremely annoyed. 

“I’m sorry, sir. But holy fu…” The apology is cut short by another explosion. Moran, it seems, wasn’t too keen on sharing his personal administration with an interested third party. 

“Perhaps you should crawl to the side,” Mycroft suggests in a gentle tone. “You have, after all, managed to open it, and I think you’ll be more comfortable outside the line of fire.”

After a quarter of an hour Zero strides towards the front of the safe. He bends over and clucks his tongue in admiration before turning to examine the bullets lodged into the wall.

“Thorough.” His right hand smacks the top of the safe.

The expert and his assistant chose to interpret the remark as praise for the quality of their work and grin at each other, evident relief relaxing the lines around their eyes. 

“Well done,” Zero does applaud them. “You can go now and come to collect your instruments once we’re finished here.”

“All right, sir. Good day, sir.” Mycroft extends his hand for them to shake and graces both of them with an affable nod.

“Do you want me to stay?” Zero asks, once the men have left the room.

“No.” Mycroft lifts the stack of files from the chair and puts them into Zero’s arms. “Sort these for me, would you? I’ll ring you if I need anything.”

***

After admiring the clever set-up of the guns in the safe Mycroft seats himself in front of it and sets to work. His first task is to sort the contents into two separate piles. Firstly, files and documents suitable for perusal by a wider public, these go on top. Secondly, but more importantly, documents he labels as F.M.E.O., these Mycroft stashes neatly at one side of the safe. As he sits flicking through a book of accounts Mycroft silently salutes Moran for being such a finicky administrator. He is loath to admit it, even to himself, but his bureaucratic heart can’t help but beat a little faster in appreciation of the intelligent organisation of an empire almost as big as Mycroft’s. But then, he muses, Moran probably just shot any blundering incompetents threatening to throw spanners in his smooth operations through sheer stupidity. It’s a means Mycroft would be extremely pleased to have at his disposal – his mind flits briefly to the ignoramuses with their ‘TOP SECRET’ files – but sadly unavailable to him in the current political climate. 

His hand closes around a small volume in leather the colour of dried blood, and his pulse point speeds up when he realises this is Moran’s diary. Flipping the pages he hurries to the date Sherlock was abducted and reads the entry.

_Dispatched JM. Acquired SH. MH frantic._

And the one made two weeks later.

_MH’s unease most amusing. Had SH flogged for ripping out IV line. WN and CK satisfied. Signed._

Mycroft slaps the book shut. If Moran referred to people by their initials it will be of little help to him. He lays it aside. The next tome proves to be more useful as it contains entry after entry of names complete with contact details and a short summary of their possible worth to Moran. Page after page filled with information, and Mycroft is convinced Sherlock must have been tossed as a prize to some of these people, but who? He can hardly send Zero’s men after each person mentioned here, not for what he has in mind. He pores over the pages, willing the symbols that make up the names that mean nothing to him to reveal whether they have had Sherlock or not, but it’s useless. Behind some of the names a number has been written. Mycroft puzzles over those for a minute, but when no idea as to their meaning presents itself to him he closes the notebook and puts it next to the diary.

At least there is enough information here to finance his jolly bout of vengeance. While he’s sorting papers Mycroft composes the first draft of the document that will transfer the whole of Moran’s ill-gotten gains to the Crown. The whole, save for a tidy sum for Mycroft to do with as he sees fit. Mycroft won’t steal from his old friend, that will never do, but he considers himself entitled to a finder’s reward.

At last the safe is nearly empty except for the stack built by Mycroft and a clutter of CD cases at the back. Mycroft reaches for them and feels his breath hitch in his throat when he notices the initials written down on the topmost disk. A DVD then, containing evidence of… 

_Christ._

The grip of his hands is so hard the plastic of the case cracks with a loud snap, jolting him out of his trance of revulsion and anger. Mycroft turns the case over and notices the sliver of white standing out against the black of the fractured case. Sweat makes his fingers clumsy as they attempt to pry open the case, wrench out the DVD – and why is he making sure he won’t break the disc? He’s not going to watch it – and bend the case in two to reveal the piece of paper lodged at the back. 

His eyes rove over the lines and he recognises them as dates, times – _Jesus wept, times! Oh, Sherlock, oh my darling boy_ – and numbers that will probably prove to correspond with some of the names in the address book and the initials in Moran’s diary.

A thorough administrator, but not a genius one. On the other hand, the only people to whom Mycroft’s discovery would have been of interest were supposed to expire together with Moran.

For a brief instant Mycroft supports himself by leaning his forehead against the top of the safe. Then he rises, sweeps the stack of files and the DVD’s up in his arms and walks out of the room in search of Zero.

“I presume you do have a carrier bag stashed somewhere in this office,” he says, walking into his minion’s office. Zero opens a drawer on the right of his desk and roots around in it a bit, coming up with a Tesco bag in the end.

“Thank you.” Mycroft accepts the bag. “I’m afraid the safe contained a lot of material that won’t be of much interest to your men. Still, they’ll have to work their way through it, I’m afraid.”

“Yes.”

“Now about your budgetary problems. Those will be resolved tomorrow morning at the latest. I’ll deal with the necessary paperwork myself this afternoon. In two days I will give you a list of people I want liquidated. A long list.”

“That’s going to take some time then. I don’t want to use that oven too frequently.”

“They aren’t all British subjects,” Mycroft assures his assistant. “Besides, they don’t have to vanish into thin air. Your men may indulge any creative impulses that might well up inside their breasts. Feed the sharks, leave the bodies for the vultures, throw them onto a rubbish tip… I don’t care what happens as long as it’s done and your men leave no trace.”

“I see.”

“If your funds threaten to run out you will let me know.”

“Yes. Any extra rewards? For swiftness or head count?”

Mycroft bring up his hand for a contemplation of his cuticles. Zero waits, patiently, leaning against the edge of the desk with folded arms, at ease in his own office. Finally, Mycroft reaches a decision. 

“No,” he says. “The idea of a competition has its appeal but it will make some of them rash and thus endanger the mission. Each of them will be handsomely rewarded, naturally. As will you, once this business is finished.”

“I didn’t mean…” Zero protests.

“Obviously. But in this you will indulge me, I hope. Spending lavishly on someone appreciated brings advantages to the receiver and the bestower both.”

“If…”

“Ah, and your men brought the hotel safe as well.” Mycroft turns towards the device, perched on a filing cabinet to the left. “They are verily fearless, wrestling their way past that vixen manning the reception desk.” His minion’s mouth quirks in a faint imitation of a smile.

Deftly, Mycroft punches in the code and retrieves his and John’s mobiles and their wallets from the safe.

“That will be all for now then. You can come and fetch the list at _St Edward_ ’s. The evening would be best, that will give me two whole days.”

“Yes.”

“Good day.” Mycroft raises the bag in greeting and walks out. As he ascends the metal stairs he suddenly feels deliciously light-hearted. To his own astonishment he throws back his head in his neck and he laughs.

***


End file.
